Finding a voice

I approached A, rather tentatively, on the subject of the "self". I've always wanted to listen and infuse within me the other side of others- the hardly spoken side of others.

 Some hesitate and don't give in too soon, some just need a slight coaxing and others only need a question to spill themselves all over the place. I find these revelations rather liberating, like unlocking a secret. It brings a sense of connectedness in a way I never knew existed. Probably, they too are finding themselves in the process as much as I am.

"You haven't changed very much in these many years." I told her.

I know what I just remarked sounded false, even to my ears, even to those who didn't know A. Who doesn't go through change anyhow?!

We've known each other vaguely for the past eight years. We are the wives of two really close friends. While the friends meet regularly- which is part of their whole business set up, we hadn't seen each other in a very long time.

 And yet, facebook bridged that gap between us in a strange way. We didn't have to start from level one on ourselves at this juncture. But there are some things facebook can't do. And that's when the real story begins.

She belongs to a conservative Muslim family which can be placed on the Malabar side of Kerala. Although, that does say something about her, I must confess what I deeply admire in her may have nothing to do with the 'Muslim upbringing' or may have everything to do with it.

What struck me as a blow was her display of a cool attitude to matters that surrounded her immediate concerns. It was that impression she left on me when I last saw her as a new mother to a 10 month old girl and which still looks the same, seven years later, with the addition of another child.

She is an earnest care-giver and nurturer and knew exactly when to not take things too hard on her self. She is a provider in her own way and seemed never to tire out of it. Before you could even utter what it was that you needed from her, it will be right before you in no time. 

Yes, her work was the invisible work most women do. Work that goes unnoticed. But I have also heard women (including myself) grouse a lot around it but make no mistake, she wasn't that kind. It was admirable then and now that I decided to allow my very marrow to suck every bit of it ever since I'd recognised it first in her.

"You know,  I did change after D was born and more so after our younger one joined the family. It was hard in a strange way. The expectations that needed to be met was grinding me on the inside, especially since the second child came out. I began to lose temper all too soon and on trivial matters that too. I would berate D for having gotten a wrong answer in a homework assignment. 

Sitara, you know? I was angry at my husband and even my mother on these occasions. Have you ever felt that? 

And it all took a while for me to get a grip on reality. I wrapped my head around the fact that I'm a grown woman with two kids and husband and that only our immediate families can be concerned about them. They have all the right, so, why should I stop them from using that right?'

We hold on to a lot of things that cannot be mended. It is these stories and many others that we carry inside of us- some that are our own to keep, others that we share- that build us. 

We're, thus, created. 

'It was hard for me to stay calm and patient while dealing with my children. But I've finally arrived at a point where providing empathy for them all has become easier.'

Combine her generous heart with a regard of utter nonchalance to matters that would have bothered other women; she made a splendid host to us when we lodged ourselves at her place for the weekend.

"What persona!", I often wondered watching her slither her way among us like a cool breeze.

She didn't give away a lot on personal, familial issues. We didn't need those details. 

We don't always need to spell everything about ourselves to others. Sometimes, all they just need is a sense of who you are. And it is this subtlety that we both needed then.

Whatever she generously divulged touched a common core in me. A locus point, I identified, that arose my sense of belonging with her. I understood she graced upon points in her life as touchstones of growth and learning. She spoke of only what matters to her now, what prompts her to search within and enables her to grow. And she laid them out to me in her usual open, naive kind of a manner.

A mother to a six year old girl myself, I could immediately relate patterns here, on psychological and emotional contexts. But I must say her story found a common chord to mine not just after we became mothers; although it is largely the reason, but also because we were vastly innocent and gullible as daughters and daughters-in-law and that our eyes opened to a lot of things at some point there.

A lot of things that seemed like the ugly truth then but now, to us, doesn't have to necessarily remain 'the truth'. It helped us focus on the sides of others we sought to inspire and to get inspired.

Most of what we have to deal with when being part of a family and a society at large is present under the skin. And we cut through most of it only over a walk or a cup of tea or in this case, beside the kitchen stove top while making Neer Dosa. Ergo, her story spilled forth!

With every word she spoke; despite the different upbringings, circumstances and experiences, I was glad to discover that we're on the same road here. We've both been nursing ourselves, our psyche, our thinking and our very deep conviction of being to a more positive, coherent and approachable attitude to life.

"I've arrived at a point where I've learned to accept a lot of things around me. I've been through bitter tears and anger modes a lot often in the past. I'm more determined to raise my kids kindly, trying to understand them and everything that surrounds us"

And thus, she's arriving.

We're all containing multitudes inside of us. It is these confided stories of shared learnings, atonement, growth and love that bring a universal camarderie into the tapestry of our very being. 

We each seek ourselves, every day, in whatever form we choose, amidst all the life we face. This is our beauty. This is where we belong.

Resurrecting the soul of a girl

"You know why I like playing teacher-teacher? Because there is no angriness!"
But you do raise your voice and get angry? Oh! And some of the lines you use?!
"Yes, Amma. But there is no real angriness!"

This is coming from a Phoenix of a girl who had risen out of the ashes only two months ago. A girl, very much back on her track to being self driven, self taught although my direction she seeks at times and well motivated in her learning. And I mean learning with a capital L.
No studying in my home. I have consciously discouraged it. It'll be so out of character for the both of us.

I was talking of a 'Learning' you acquire out of mindful and mindless activities. Art, dance, reading, make believe, movies, theatre have always revolved our lives, indoors. Outdoors brought a whole new pandora's box of learning. And she oscillated between the two effortlessly. It defined the very rhythm of her day. I go about doing the things I love and she gets about with hers. Our sanctorium of a place turns into a haven of an incubator for creativity, quiet learning and fun. Or so I think is what seems to be churning here. It is a slow burner of a lifestyle that found us ages ago. And we're happy being together and being apart at the same time. Eclectically, speaking.

But only two months ago, July, to be precise, things took a not-so-good turn after a month at school. A transition was underway. And we all knew this was coming. After all, Grade I is a big deal for a not-so-old kindergartner. And she was riding the waves as they came. Boldly and confidently. Until.
"Why do they yell at us so much? It is so painful, it hurts my body!"
Are they yelling at you?
"No, the entire class!"

I gave her a side of what the teachers were going through. Particularly, the class assistant teacher who seemed to be notoriously topping the list of never-ending yell abuse.
Dealing with 40 odd children for 5-6 hrs is no small feat, I answered. She took my point and said nothing then.

But the story was the same the next day and the day after and the day after that. I soon discovered I was losing her in a strange way. Like as if, she were fading or turning grey. As much as I tried to acknowledge this ongoing unfairness with her, things stayed pretty much the same for her. I ardently avoided feeling corny around her.

"You know? I have a magic pixie, a male, who says you got someone laughing very hard today."
We're swinging at the park after school. She continued to swing as she listened.
"And that someone's name begins with a M."
"No, Amma. It begins with a K. It was Kapila. She was laughing hard at my joke".
And there, we broke the ice for the day. Every day of July was a series of luxuriously crafted stories of conversation starters.

I never in my life imagined creating so many stories to extract some information from a little big girl. And it worked miraculously!

Our conversations were meticulously spaced. It could be while swinging in the park after school or during lunch or as a bedtime conversation after a read-aloud/oral story narrations we do as parents of our childhood stories to the girl or during our mini walks in our beautiful residential society.

And soon enough, she began to volunteer snippets of her days. Highlights that her rainbow heart held ever dearly. She cracked open and started spilling beans.

It was a conscious, rigourous grind to get her back to her original, spirited, opinionated, confident self.
Since, she never had trouble getting up in the morning ( except to go to school), I awoke her on school days at her usual 6:10 and encouraged her to play, draw or whatever her heart desired then. She had close to an hour to warm up to the idea of a bath later and the "getting ready to school" part which she did willingly on most days.
Today I even had time to spare to read her a story in the morning !

By the mid of August, I saw her heart going all rainbowy and glorious again. She no longer wants me hanging about the park. Atleast, not in a clingy way she did in the month of July when this was eating the both of us from the inside. She lost that sulky attitude she had for her friends when we waited at the bus pick up point. Now that was a good sign! She even came home most days very much chirpy.
She restored her ability to feel vital and capable. She was replenished by a kind of invisible support she received from us as parents.
She grew out of her ashes, only more boldly, more compassionately and more deeply enlivened as a person. Her soul was revived thus. It is as if she is blazing in her usual techno colour we hadn't seen for an entire month.

"I will see if I can talk to your class teacher about the yelling problem. We need to know the teacher's side of things as well. Right?".

She nodded quietly, very assured, in her signature understanding way.

Everyday is another day. Hopefully!

'I don't want to go to school!'

This has been a unfailed chant every dawn. She's approaching two months since the day she began Grade I. Things seemed different in the beginning but now school seems revolting. I sometimes tell her it is not going to be the same every day.

Every day is another day. Hopefully.

'You know why I don't want to go to school? '

A tiny implore is diffusing out of her question.

'Because my ears pain when the teacher yells so much!'

Now she's lost it. Broken tears stream her face.

She may be a pep talker to some but she is containing it all inside.

Now how do I talk to this kid? How do I reach out to her?

Maybe talking is pointless. All I've been doing so far is hug and kiss and mutter a "I understand " into her ears.

'Why do they have to yell, Amma? All the time!'
How about your Maths teacher? You like her a lot, don't you? Does she yell sometimes?
'She never yells. She is gentle. But the other teacher, you know the helper teacher, she is always rude. And it is painful.'

She adores her Maths teacher deeply, truly, madly.

'Amma, she is my class teacher, you know? She is MY class teacher !'

If you want to be face to face with pure, unadulterated pride and acceptance, you should have been right there with me that day.
Before my very eyes.
She burned like a thousand splendid suns.

Donkey Angel with a pink bow

Tonight we slept like angels did.

Tonight I claimed indulgence from my little girl as I played Eeyore, the unforgettably (highly suspect ?!) "unmemorable" stuffed toy donkey character from the widely known Winnie the Pooh adventure stories . It all began with me trying to jog her memory of him ( I don't know why we got there) and it did come to her eventually but only to sufficiently end in magic realism diffused from within her.

Some of the things that kids say and imagine, seem to sink its hooks right into our very hearts. We wouldn't have had this enchanting conversation if I were to remain the "Amma me" busying us to be tucked in bed.

She sought the conduit of the "Eeyore me".

It was bedtime so I feigned exhaustion and sleepiness. I switched the lights off, the door wide open to the hallway- the room gently aglow from its light; the rays of which found its slant landings on one of her drawings tacked dutifully on the wall of this room; many moons ago. It was a drawing made out of her glitter pens, done with all the "loverliness" afloat in her heart while I'd been away from her for a few days . When I'd gotten back she presented me with that sublime sparkly piece of art.

A drawing of me and her.

She was recounting to the "Eeyore me" what the "Amma me" thought of her work.

"Do you know what she felt? She loved it so much she wanted to stay there!"
"Stay where?", I checked while not betraying my Eeyore inflection.
"In my picture. In glitter land." She sounded incredulous yet persisted on.
"You know what my mother says? That we have a third eye in our hearts and that helps us see the wings we have. It is using our imagination. That is why we're angels. My mother and I are angels."

There goes the meaning of her life in a single breath. Quite a metaphysical thought for a 6 year old to be tossing at a bedtime conversation. And no, she did not get "the third eye in our hearts" concept from me. It's all a result of the churnings of her mind. Heart? Brain?

I resumed my curiousity.

"So do only children have the third eye in their hearts?"
"Well, not all. It's like Shiva. His left eye is the Sun, right eye the Moon and the third eye the fire."

She ends "fire" with a slip of a revelation to be kept just between the two of us. That was to remain our secret knowledge. (Not quite so now, is it?!)

She goes on, "So only those who believe in the third eye will see glitterland. And so we're angels.
Do you believe in the third eye, Eeyore?"
"I'm beginning to believe in it now." I said,  swearing inside my head that I'd felt my heart grow luminous in a smile.
"Then you will be a donkey angel with a pink bow!"

I cracked up at that declaration. My once blazing heart spilled all over our space. She felt sublimed immediately- mighty pleased to have found a gloom dripping Eeyore guffawing in her face.

" I don't usually live here. Can you see that greyish brown part in the sky?", she asked while pointing at the window. It was dark, overcast with looming rain clouds made aware of its presence by the city lights.
"I live there. I have a castle. You can't see it from here."
This, she confides in me with all her breath put in this belief.
I add on, "It's like those Japanese movies with castles in the sky."
"No. My castle doesn't stay there. It has wings. Large wings. And I sit on them. It floats!" Animation oozed from within her eyes and voice like satin.
"There are swans too. And the huge castle is in the middle of it. It's got a ceiling as high as space!"
"Ah!"

She went on about it through the night, in great length like an artist performing a soliloquy; so intoxicated in the narration of her imaginings that I had to snap the both of us out this other worldly revel.
It was a school night, after all!

 All we can do sometimes is shrug at the choice we've decided to take. 

Today, she took her break from school and forged her solidarity with the whole "school going business" in the night by conferring with the ghosts of her imagination - which included me, the donkey angel with the pink bow. We were both replenished in a strange way. Almost transcendently.

Tonight we slept like angels did.

Fringe benefits of being a pre-schooler

What she lacks for in niceties and sugar-coated talk, she makes up for with liberal splashes of kisses. Yes, its a kiss mania. Umma, umma, ummma!!

Sometimes its expected, other times I'm caught in a hysteria of kisses so unexpected that I'm literally stopped on my tracks. Such enervating emotions, sigh! But I can live with that 😊

With fits of frenzied affection, I'm smothered and spoiled to bits by my only child. And it has also become a sort of public display of affection, not that she knows much ado about public and private emotional plays.

Whenever she sticks out a cheek for a kiss, I go all the way unhesitantly (the typical mother type). But with P, kisses are without provocation and utter disregard for the surrounding which would have bothered the 'old me' a great deal. But she has taught me that there is no harm in spreading the 'Magnificence of love' wherever I go. I call it the 'Stardust effect' rubbing on me 😊.

Not a single day would pass by without her teeming, boisterous energy infecting me in some manner. Her spirit, her opinionated self is so afflicting that its influence cannot be escaped. I'm not on the throes of extolling her the highest honour here. This is merely an account of a mother, a woman unemployed and steeped into the art of parenting. Anything I love, I immerse into it with fiery passion and parenthood is no different. There are possiblities unexplored here, territories to be discovered and potentials to be stumbled upon. Sans job, I can invest a lot of time and energy into raising P in a certain way that I believe is largely beneficial to her.

Who do I go to when I need to wear off my withdrawal symptoms (leaving Bangalore times)? Who do I find sneaking a book of  dinosaurs, horses and elephants (a recent addition) devouring every picture filled page? Who do I sit beside to watch monster doodle or paint with an enthusiasm so infectious that it has stirred up a slight interest for art in me? Who croons along when I sing 'Unni vavavo' or 'Ponnumthinkal'? Who comes to my rescue with an inescapable charm that derides my sometimes moody self? Who do I play 'knock knock' every night just to hear her tiny, honey-sweet voice answer 'Its me, Sumani'? Who do I get to hear remarkably wise observations from? Who do I hear give gasp-inducing talk so that I end up dribbling notes on my phone about it? Who do I see putting up brave, stoic faces (very rare occasions these are) when I had to strike her only because it becomes deviously uncontrollable? Above all, who do I get to snuggle up to every night to read bedtime stories, honing my story telling skills along the way of tantalizing her imaginations, her eyes and jaws wide open in wonder and definitely all ears? 😊Oh, how I cherish that sight!!.

She is a masterpiece of her own being which I believe is universally applied to children.

She helped me form new and interesting impressions of the people around us. Of the people we know of. Of the people we don't know of.

She taught me to go easy on myself sometimes, so that things get easy around us. And I totally subscribe to this philosophy although its easier said than done.

And I'm happy to nourish, enrich and nurture her for as long as I can. It is such a humbling experience and such a GRIND! Not every day will be spectacular with P but at least a spectre of self education creeps in each day. That is real to me.

Who knew this ever blooming girl, once a peanut sized life could bring out such a transformation in me as a person. Her declarations of love is what I seek when I'm in dire need of 'reassurance' and 'renaissance' as a person.

Because I'm nice! :)

Penny for my 3.6 year old 'peach' girl's thoughts? Yes, I will have to sometimes. Other times she lets me know for free. The trajectory of her thoughts, I  must admit, has baffled me on quite a few occasions. 'Did she actually notice that about me?' 'How long has she been wanting or thinking like that?' Questions in puffy clouds hovering over my head.

But in this post, which I type at the risk of my daughter waking up any minute all ready to demand things from me, I intend to pour down flashes of her amusing thoughts for posterity's sake. C'mon, I do fancy her reading all this someday if my husband manages to get a printout 😊

The other day while we were watching our-obsessively-favourite-animated film-of-now (Fyi, it keeps changing every month or so) , 'Despicable me'; we got to a scene where Margo (one of the adorable adopted girls by Gru) was pecking away to glory on her phone , while Gru, in a mask of overwhelming anxiety, tries to make sure she isn't texting a boy. The point is that at this moment of the film, my little girl presses the pause button, looks up from the screen and tells me, 'She's just like you, reading and writing on the phone' Gasp!

Above the din of all that clacking noise on the keyboard (as a result of penning down some gibberish) I made one day, we were trying to have a semblance of a 'not so distracted ' conversation. And the topic was our likelihood of visiting my hometown in Kerala for my sister's marriage. And then with girlish enthusiasm my daughter tests me, 'Will I get married?' How in the world did she get the idea of 'her' marriage? This one was a recent gasp! 😊

We were having one of our sporadic idle Saturday talk. One of those talks where I try to understand my daughter's sensibilities and feelings through the art of subtlety. Sometimes I believe these talks have been long overdue but once they are done, I feel a lot closer to her, as if I'd just unlocked some secret door inside of her and trust me, on those days my face is definitely beaming 😊 as if I were bestowed the crown of parenthood😁. Cutting to the chase, we were making some small talk when li'l P suddenly exclaimed, ' I'm a peach girl. My skin is peach colour!' To this remark, I was flabbergasted alright but then I ventured on 'What colour is my skin?'. She paused to think and then said, ' peach colour!' with her trademark grin. I was obviously flattered 😁 but did I get an understanding of how her brain unspools? Darn it! I didn't need to then. She will probably say everyone around her is peach in colour for all that matters. All she does is see things with her own eyes, unraveling herself, questioning me and nudging me to look at the other side of things. And believe me, no matter what the colour, my li'l P will accept the good things and wonder about the bad ones at this point in her life. Will she be my quintessential teacher or vice-versa?( Kids are most of the times eye-openers to their parents)? It is highly likely. But as of now, the only skin colour she has a  minuscule of interest in is hers. Should I be concerned? Not if she is. But I do plan to keep it 'no bother' if the topic ever comes to that again.

And the creme de la creme of her thoughts was discovered today. I'd just given her a bath and after her mandatory soaking in a bucket of water (she calls herself a hippo then!), she hauls herself out of it and walks to her room dripping wet. I dry her and then ask her to go wear her underwear. She is big enough to do that but she ignores me and instead chooses to dally about with her toys on the bed. And I go like, ' Aren't you ashamed?' To which she stunned me saying, 'No, because I'm nice!' And I intend to keep it that way. I intend for her to not unlearn this simple ability to love and respect one's body.

Being a (default) parent,for many reasons, does come with a price but it definitely does add spark to my life 😅

And now that I've let it out into the virtual void, I'm at peace 😊

A Mama's Story

When I first saw the 1948 film ‘I remember Mama’, I felt proud and happy at the end of it. Normally, after viewing a film belonging to the genre of motherhood, particularly the ones that ooze the very essence of motherhood marvellously with their unflinching devotion and tender ways, I tend to get reminded of my own mother. I get transported to those days, which I still yearn for, where father is the head of the family but you are nevertheless taken under the loving shelter of your mother, the problem solver, the ultimate controller of the happenings. But today I’m bubbling with pride because I not only relate the central character to my mother, but I saw shades of myself in her. There were several moments in the movie that has beautifully struck a sharp chord on me. I shall write on one such moment. There was this particular point in the film where the mother, played by Irene Dunne, promises her fourth daughter that she would be near her once her surgery is done. But due to the rules laid out by the hospital, the mother is refused to visit her daughter for 24 hrs. Because she doesn’t want to go back on her promise and because she was dying to see her child well, she plans on visiting her child that very night in the guises of a floor cleaner. For most of us, this act only would suffice to prove the concerns of a doting and caring mother. But to me it was the scene that followed that that was almost magical. She enters her daughter’s ward and finds her little angel lying on bed, trying to go to sleep. She sings her a lullaby in her angelic voice that puts the rest of children to sleep as well. But the whole beauty of the scene comes after that when Dunne walks out of the room as soon as the duty nurse returns. The nurse observes the room and notices that there is a change, that there is a wonderfully soothing, almost berceuse silence emanating from the room, that for a minute she wondered if that was the very same room she had left a couple of minutes ago. For me, that was the icing of this delicious cake. Not because of the effort she took to see her daughter and keep her word but because of the ethereal effect her song had on the entire ward. It was a wonderfully treated scene by director George Stevens. The movie definitely sums up the everlasting magical effect a mother can provide her family. And to me, it was a gentle reminder of the mother within me that it kindles my heart to even think of it. This film wasn’t just about a mother but a tale of a woman of solid substance. She is a wife, daughter, niece and a sister too. Her responsibilities stretches beyond her family. And she doesn’t waver in her love towards anyone, although we know for certain that it is not easy to care for everyone with the same wavelength. To put down my higher innermost thoughts on the movie, I should say it was a self-introspection in several ways for me, even from the rare and rather unusual scenes. Everyone ought to watch this film at least once in their lifetime to witness the unquestionable splendour of motherhood as well as womanhood, played perfectly by Irene Dunne.